Scars and Long Nights
by Anya2
Summary: Het fic. Dean has lived through some long nights through the years and sometimes he thinks that they’re the only thing in his life that he’s going to remember.


**Title: **Scars and Long Nights  
**Rating: **M  
**Characters:** Dean, Sam, OCs  
**Pairing: **Dean/OFC, mentions of Sam/Jess  
**Warnings:** Angst!Dean, Violence, Adult stuff (the works basically)  
**Spoilers: **All of season 2 excluding the finale

**Summary: **Dean has lived through some long nights through the years and sometimes he thinks they're the only thing in his life he's going to remember.

**Author's Note: **This was meant to simply be shippy but it kind of evolved into more of an in depth look at Dean's character.

* * *

Dean had lived through a few long nights in his relatively short life time.

The earliest he could remember was the night Sammy was born. He had only been about four at the time and so he didn't really recall all that much, just flashes. He remembered being a bit confused; his mom was in pain and his dad had left him with a kindly faced nurse telling him that it was going to be okay. Dean had thought that it might be something to do with the new baby but he was too afraid to ask.

The next had come shortly after that; the night grandma Winchester had died. It had been the first time he had ever experienced death. He'd wanted to go in and talk to her, after all she was his only grandparent and he had a feeling that he wouldn't be seeing her again, but mom had said she was too sick and that he should stay out here and look after herself and Sammy whilst dad was in there. It was dawn by the time his dad had finally left the room, looking tired and sad. Dean had run to him, wrapping his small arms around large legs, the best hug he could give at his height. And when his dad scooped him off the floor and hugged him fiercely it was the first time Dean saw him cry.

The night his mom had died. That had been the longest night of all. He'd spent hours sitting outside in his pyjamas, holding on to Sammy, looking after him like dad had ordered. Police and firemen had wandered around shaking their heads and looking sad, neighbours had stood in huddled groups whispering and glancing at him sympathetically, and his father had been busy talking to serious looking men in suits. Dean had guessed that his mom must be dead but he didn't know who to ask so he'd sat there in silence keeping a tight grip on Sammy until his dad had finally come to collect them.

Many long nights had followed that one, too many to remember them all. As they travelled around with their father hunting things whilst he and Sammy grew up on the road those long nights felt like they stretched forever.

Sometimes he would lie huddled in yet another unfamiliar bed, his eyes shooting open every time they almost drifted shut. He was only a kid after all and even the bravest kids got scared in the dark sometimes. Most of those kids didn't really know what was out there though. Many times he nearly woke his dad, feeling the need for some reassurance. He never did though. His dad needed his rest and besides he'd taught Dean to be tougher than that. He had to brave if he wanted to help.

Far worse were those nights when he waited for dad to come home, playing father to Sammy whilst the real man of the house was out killing something or other. He tried not to think about all the things that might have happened to him, tried not to calculate in his head how long the job should take and so what time he should be home by. He was always late and Dean was always worried.

The night his dad finally didn't come home seemed to last days. Dean was a man now, not a boy anymore but he'd still been concerned when he'd returned from his own hunt and found that dad wasn't waiting for him at the motel like they'd planned. He'd tried his cell phone and had gotten no answer, the message that told him to speak after the tone leaving a cold chill in his blood. It was stupid really; he knew dad was probably just busy and couldn't get to the phone but Dean had stayed up all the same. He'd tried calling him dozens of times that night but the result never changed. It was the fear that he'd lost his father that had driven him to go to Sam, even though they'd barely spoken in some time. He didn't want to continue on alone.

The most unexpected of those long nights was the night Sam's girlfriend Jessica had died. He didn't know what had made him go back after he'd dropped him off at his college dorm. He told himself it was a gut feeling, that his instincts were so good he just felt that there was something wrong, but in truth he hadn't seen it coming at all. He'd returned simply because he felt uncomfortable about going off on his own. Not that he didn't think he was capable, it just didn't feel right. There'd always been someone else there; dad or Sam had always been with him. Even when he'd been doing his own hunting in the last few years dad had been no more than a phone call away. But that night, driving away from Sam, realising that he was for once truly alone in that dark world of theirs he'd felt properly lonely for the first time in years. Call it weakness but he didn't want to be on his own. And so he'd returned to the apartment wondering if he could change his brother's mind and had arrived just in time to pull a stunned and horrified Sam out of the fire that had engulfed his girlfriend. Hours later, driving away from the scene, Sam had sat there in utter silence, a look of despondent determination on his face, thinking about the job he had to do not the fact that his girlfriend was dead. Dean sat in silence too, not knowing what to say. He hadn't even known the girl, had no clue as to how long Sam had been seeing her, if it was serious, if he loved her...And so he continued to drive, wanting to comfort his brother but not knowing how to, his only solution to get him as far away from what had happened as possible.

The most recent and one of the most painful nights was the one when they'd burnt their father's body, knowing that it was what he would have wanted, excluding any possibility of him coming back. The tears had openly rolled down Sam's cheeks but Dean's had hid in the corner of his eyes, clinging to his eyelashes, only a few escaping. He stood there until the smell of burning flesh was embedded deep in his skin, until every last ember had died away. He stood there in salute, saying goodbye, paying due respect to a fallen soldier.

Yes, Dean had lived through too many long nights in his life so far. Enough to know that this one was going to be another.

When they'd first arrived at the hospital, the nurses had literally had to prise him away from her so they could get her into theatre. He couldn't let her go. Wouldn't get her go. His numbed brain had just kept coming up with horrible ideas that made him hold on to her tighter; what if it was the last time he saw her, what if she woke up and asked for him, what if she died in that room?

Eventually they had a couple of orderlies forcibly unclasped his hand from hers, explaining patiently to him that he had to let them help her. Then they'd whisked her away through doors where he was told he could not follow.

In the moments of silence following all the chaos he'd leant back heavily onto the wall behind him, the reality of what had happened finally seeming to hit him all at once. As he looked at his shirt, covered in dark stains of her blood, his knees had buckled and he'd sunk to the ground, his legs failing to support him any longer. He was probably in shock, the practical part of his brain had realised. The rest of it was just muttering 'this isn't happening, this isn't happening' over and over again as though he really believed that thinking it strongly enough would somehow make it true.

To be fair he'd seen stranger things happen.

He was still sitting in that empty corridor nearly an hour later when Sam had found him. Wordlessly his brother had stood in front of him and held out an offering hand. Still numb with shock Dean had stared at it bleary eyed for a long moment before he eventually took it and Sam had hauled him to his feet, pulling him straight into a fiercely protective hug. For once Dean hadn't resisted.

Sam had told Dean to say with her, to keep her safe whilst he went after her attacker. From the fact that Sam had returned so soon, Dean had assumed that he'd had no luck although they hadn't spoken about. Sam had gone again now, said he needed to make a few phone calls. Dean didn't know who Sam was calling. Izzy's friend Rhema? Bobby? Ellen? In truth it was probably no one. Just an excuse to leave them alone for a bit. At least he hoped it was.

Dean had told him in no uncertain terms that he was not to go after Jack Hedley, partly because it was unsafe to do so but mainly because he planned on killing the son of a bitch himself. Sam had smiled just a little, telling him that he knew that wasn't true. Dean had nodded but had said that he at least wanted to kick the crap out of the guy and that would be a lot harder to do if he was running scared. Besides, Dean wanted Sam here in case Jack decided to come back and try to finish the job. She was safer with two pairs of eyes watching over her and Sam was safer not running after a trained, armed psycho.

Frankly it was a minor miracle that she was still alive at all. A knife of that size in that place, there were all manner of vital areas it could and probably should have hit. Had it severed an artery she would have died in the middle of that road, drowning in her own blood, him holding her in helpless arms. The idea made him feel like he was going to throw up.

When Dean really thought about it now though he couldn't understand how an experienced hunter like Jack Hedley had failed to finish the job there and then. Maybe deep down even he had balked at the idea of killing his own daughter, his hand subconsciously not sending the knife to quite the right place, leaving an element of chance or fate or karma or whatever you believed in to make that decision for him.

The hospital room was dim, the lights turned right down. It was quiet too, the rhythmic bleeping of monitors and sounds of her thankfully gentle breathing the only things he could hear.

She was so pale still, sickly so, as white as the cotton sheets wrapped around her. The only traces of colour seemed to be her dark hair and the ring of finger shaped bruises around her throat. She'd lost a lot of blood and the doctors had done a good job at patching her up but it was up to her now. It was down to the vagaries of her own biology as to whether or not she woke up or succumbed to some sort of infection or complication.

Dean hated anything that was so left to chance and particularly anything where he could do nothing to help.

In all those crappy daytime soap operas he'd watched whilst staying in crappy motels during boring days of waiting for nightfall and the hunt to continue, he'd seen more than his fair share of coma scenes. And when someone was unconscious those in attendance were told to keep talking to that person, to keep reminding them that those they cared about were there just waiting for them to wake up. Dean loathed the idea of taking advice from trash TV but it was better than doing nothing and so, after a long period of pacing at the foot of her bed, angry at her almost for not being awake, he scrapped a chair up and sat beside her.

Gingerly held her hand, noticing for the first time how much smaller and more delicate her fingers were than his, momentarily remembering how they could touch his skin so feather light and how her nails drew patterns on his back that sent shivers right through him. Her flesh was cool to the touch and no matter how hard he tried to warm it, it didn't seem to make any difference. He freaked slightly when he saw the traces of dirt his grubby hands had left on her pristine, medically clean skin and he fled immediately to the adjoining bathroom, washing them raw, her blood still ingrained with the dirt there. He caught his reflection in the mirror. He looked a haunted man, ten years older than he had done that morning. He looked like his father.

It had all been so sudden. Jack must have been tracking them, probably for days, and Dean could curse himself for not having realised it. He'd gotten sloppy and it had almost cost her her life. Could still do so yet. The whole point of her being with them was so he could keep her safe from this very thing and yet Dean had noticed nothing until it was too late. He'd not done his job and he felt as guilty as hell. Some stupid part of him said that he deserved this, that it was his punishment for ever allowing her into his life in the first place. He should have known something like this would happen.

He had been walking back to the car, Sam and Izzy going off in the other direction. They were hunting a flesh eating demon of some sort and had decided to split up, Dean trying to track it, Sam and Izzy taking the short trip to the local library to check out more about the legend that had brought them here in the first place. He thought he was giving them the safe job.

He'd heard the sound of running footsteps but had barely glanced up, slightly curious as to their origin but more focused on getting in his car and getting after the demon than anything else. He'd seen the man barrel into Sam, punching him to the floor and Dean had instantly tensed, ready to get in there, ready for the fight. He'd then watched in sickened horror as the man had grabbed Isabel hard by the throat, forcing her to automatically clutch at his arm to try and release herself and so leaving her midsection vulnerable. He'd plunged the knife into her without a moment's hesitation, the cold efficiency of a killer doing his job.

Before Dean had even really processed what was happening he was powering towards them, a potent mixture of rage and terror moving him faster than he thought possible considering the sheer shock of the moment. He'd seen the man, who he'd finally realised was Jack, slowly slide the knife from her. He watched her clutching at the bleeding wound as she'd sunk to her knees, disbelief and confusion on her face.

He'd never told her. He'd reasoned that it was to protect her but to be honest he'd never had the balls. How exactly did you tell someone that their own father had planned to kill them? That, if he thought they were a threat to others he wasn't going to even bother trying to save them but he was going to take them out, no questions asked? Dean wondered now if telling her would have made any difference. Would it have stopped tonight happening? He doubted it but he'd never really know. It was a question that would hang over him for a long time to come.

He'd reached her side just as Sam was staggering to his feet.

"Stay with her," Sam had ordered, running off in the direction Jack had taken, determined to stop him.

Like Dean needed telling to do that.

He'd put his arms around her, stopping her from falling back to the hard concrete floor. He'd held her carefully against him with one hand as the other had shakily dialled 911.

"_Just hold on baby," _he'd whispered, _"You'll be okay. You're gonna be fine."_

He wasn't reassuring her; he was giving her an order.

Dean had never believed in any kind of religion, had never had faith in anything that wasn't tangible. Once he'd thought he'd seen an act of God but even that hadn't truly swayed him; it could all just be coincidence as far as he was concerned. As he held her on the deserted street though, trying to listen for the sound of sirens getting closer rather than her shallow breathing and pressing on her wound to stem the bleeding whilst hoping not to hurt her, he almost prayed. Not words so much but in his mind he called out to anyone who was up there looking down on these things, asking them to see fit to get her through this. To not take her from him. To do him a favour just this once.

Hands clean, he returned once more to the quiet hospital room and walked back to his seat, looking at her for a long, silent moment. He brushed her hair off of her face, the strands appearing all the darker against the pallor of her skin. Without thinking he leant up and his lips brushed feather light over her forehead before he moved them to her ear. His whispers pleaded with her. He didn't ask for much. He just wanted her back, he wanted her to live.

"_Don't leave me..."_

Everyone had left him. Even Sam had for a while. He didn't have enough people in his life to afford to lose another person he loved.

Sam re-entered the room at that point and Dean sat back on his chair, a little embarrassed at his moment of weakness.

"How she is?" Sam asked quietly, concern for both of them etched on his features as he walked to the other side of the bed and placed a soothing hand on her shoulder even though he must have known that she couldn't feel it.

"Doc said she's doing pretty well so far."

Sam nodded, "Good. How are you?"

Dean shrugged, the hint of a disarming smile on his face, "Hey, I'm fine but then I didn't just get stabbed in the gut so..."

"You know what I mean," Sam prodded, a little weary of Dean's preference to hide the fact that he felt anything at all and of his constant attempts to try and convince the world he was always okay whatever happened. It was bullshit and Sam knew it.

"I've been better," Dean admitted quietly off of his brother's deep, worried frown. It wasn't much but it was all he was prepared to give right now.

Sam nodded, accepting that that response was better than nothing.

"I called Bobby," he continued, his voice quiet as though he was afraid he might wake her. Dean wished her could.

"What did he say?"

"He's gonna keep his ear to the ground but..." he sighed and shook his head, clearly not having liked what he heard, "He said that Jack and Gordon Walker aren't the only ones who think their way. Jack's got friends out there. He's knows we'll be looking for him and if he doesn't want to be found..."

"We'll find him," Dean said firmly, "I'm not leaving guys like him out there who are trying to kill people like you and her."

"They're people too Dean," Sam reminded him as he walked back a few paces and sat himself in the spare chair, "We can't just go around shooting them."

"Yeah? Really?" Dean replied, his sarcasm not doing much to hide his anger, "You got a good reason for that? They don't seem to have too many problems with killing and what goes around comes around so..."

"As far as we know they haven't killed anyone," Sam pointed out.

"Well they had a damn good try tonight."

Silence reigned following that. Dean was alternatively too angry or concerned to say anything constructive and so he kept his mouth firmly shut. Sam tried and failed to settle his too tall frame into the tiny chair, picking absently at a thread on the bottom of his t-shirt, looking more than a bit uncomfortable. He wanted to be there for his brother but he wasn't sure if that was what Dean wanted or if he should really leave them alone.

Dean lived off the coffee Sam brought him for the next few days. Even when she awoke nearly forty eight hours later he didn't leave the room until he was absolutely certain she was okay. He'd been in hospital before. One moment he had been talking to his dad and the next one dad was lying dead on a trolley whilst medical staff fought hopelessly to bring him back. He wasn't going to risk it happening again and his tired brain seemed to have realised that it couldn't happen if he was simply there. That his presence alone could scare the bad things away.

As long as he lived he wouldn't forget the moment she finally opened her eyes. The doctors said she was doing well, that she wasn't showing any signs of infection and that the wound was healing nicely. Sam had wondered if it was maybe something to do with being one of the special children. He himself had been oddly resistance to a killer virus once and maybe this was just another sign that they were just physically more resistant in general. Dean had grunted a 'whatever' not really wanting to think about it right at the moment. He didn't care what the reason was as long as she woke up.

When her eyes had finally opened and she'd looked at him, a bit confused but otherwise very much still her, he felt like he was going to collapse with relief. For the last few hours he been thinking she was on the brink of waking, suddenly seeming restless and whole lot more alive than she had done previously, but to finally see her looking at him...Hot, relieved, exhausted tears pricked his eyes and he swallowed heavily into his throat determined not to dissolve into some sort of pathetic mess in front of her.

"I'll go get the doctor," Sam said, rising from the arm chair that had become his uncomfortable home, giving Izzy a reassuring smile before he left the room.

"Hey baby..." Dean had whispered softly, at last seeming to feel the warmth returning to her fingers although whether that was his imagination or not he wasn't certain.

"Do you know what happened?" he asked, knowing from experience how disconcerting it was to wake up having no clue how you got somewhere.

She shifted a little uncomfortably in the bed, seemingly testing herself out before she nodded.

"It was my dad," she said hoarsely after a moment of silence.

"I know," Dean said, tenderly trailing his fingers through the hair lying around her face, "I'm sorry."

What was he apologising for; not protecting her or not telling her about the threat in the first place?

Doctors descended on them then and Dean had had to leave her again although he did so without a fight this time.

Hours later, after she'd properly drunk something and had slept for a good while, Sam was off buying flowers and magazines and anything else he thought she'd need to make the following days there bearable. With them alone she took a good long look at Dean and then smiled tiredly.

"You know you look awful right?"

He laughed just a little and that seemed to cheer her up a bit.

"But I'm pretty sure I don't look any better so..."

"You look beautiful."

She rolled her eyes.

"Liar."

"Just get some rest," he ordered. He was getting very good at ordering her about. It was a testament to her easy going nature that she didn't call him on it too often.

There was a moment's pause before she asked something that was obviously playing on her mind.

"My father, did you find him?"

Dean knew what she was really asking; had they caught up with him and was he dead? He couldn't tell if she cared or not but there again it wasn't something he had personal experience of. He'd never had to go through anything like this with his own dad. His dad had always protected him and Sam, had kept them safe and taught them how to look out for themselves. His dad had died to give him another chance. It must be hard to realise that the one person who really should be on your side wasn't.

"No," Dean said softly, "We didn't."

She nodded and didn't speak another word on the subject.

Ten days later she was packing, finally having persuaded the doctors that she was fit to be discharged. They had taken some convincing but they couldn't deny the evidence in front of their eyes. She was maybe a bit tired still but otherwise very well. The wound had healed remarkably and it didn't seem to cause her any discomfort anymore.

Sam had gone back to the motel to check out and pick up his and Dean's belongings, including the car. Dean was trying to make himself useful, trying to help collect up the few items of clothes and the girl stuff she carried with her and put it in her bag. Apparently though he was making a mess of it and was told to just go have a shower and clean himself up – with her reminding him once more that he didn't have to sport that scruffy mechanic look the whole time - and leave her to it.

Knowing when he was fighting a losing battle he for once did as he was told.

Returning to the room ten minutes later to get a fresh t-shirt, hair still dripping and towel wrapped around his waist he paused when he saw her. She was pulling one top over her head, tossing it away and then frowning as she looked around for the one she'd meant to replace it with. Whilst the sight of her stripped down to her bra was usually something he could look at all day it wasn't that that held his gaze.

It was the thin white scar in the centre of her body, level with the base of her ribs.

Before she even really realised he was watching her he had pulled her into the bathroom, closing the door behind them and pushing her up against it. Swift hands undid her bra, pulling it away as he let his towel dropped and moved in tight to kiss her, revelling in the feel of soft breasts against his chest. His mouth was longing and desperate on hers, short kisses, unable to decide what he wanted and unable to get enough. He kissed down and deep, his tongue playing at her nipples whilst his fingers undid her trousers and pulled them and her panties down in one move needing her to be naked and against him. In a way it was all too quick he realised, something in his head telling him that he should be taking it slowly, making love to her, telling her how he really felt about her, not screwing her against a bathroom door. But as he rose to kiss her again and felt her cool fingers slide down his chest to wrap round him, a few strokes making him throb almost painfully, he knew this was what he needed.

He needed to feel her hands on him burning their presence into his flesh whilst her tongue was in his mouth, firm and demanding. He needed to feel her panting breaths against his neck as he pushed his fingers into her and then the momentary collapse of her knees as he soon made her fall apart with just those two fingers and his thumb. He needed the weight of her as he lifted her up, bracing her against the door as her legs wrapped around him. He needed to feel that slick wetness and heat as he slowly slid her down onto him, savouring the moment as long as he could. He needed to remember that glorious feeling of being deep inside her, of feeling her grip around him, then watching the erotic sight of her breasts moving in front of his face as he thrust. He needed to remember the hard panting of his own breath, the way his voice cracked as he groaned and how his blood shot lightning fast through his veins sending pleasure to every inch. He needed to feel her dig her fingers harder in the flesh of his shoulders as he muttered every obscenity he could muster, telling her how she made him feel and what he wanted to do to her. He needed to hear her say his name and see her face caught in pleasure as he pushed his fingers down between them and took just a few carefully placed strokes to make her finally squeeze around him blindingly tight. He needed to feel that tightening low in his own abdomen that told him he wasn't going to last much longer. He needed to remember what it felt like to come inside her, a charged mixture of pleasure, lust, love and masculine sensibilities that was almost overwhelming.

He needed to do all that just to forget that he'd ever seen that damn scar marring her flesh.

As he lowered her carefully to the floor and kissed her though, slow, deep and almost apologetic in the face of something a bit too rough and ready given the circumstances, he realised that his fingers had involuntarily wandered to that scar and he knew right away. He could spend the rest of his days making love to her, could spend every night with her body tight underneath his getting to know it in all the ways possible and that scar would never go away. It would never let him forget that very long night he'd spent wondering if she would die in front of him.

It took him weeks to realise the truth and it was the dumbest thing that made him do so. He didn't say anything about it during that time but she must have known that it was bothering him and he was sure he'd caught her and Sam talking about it more than once, seeing them hurriedly change the subject upon realising he was present.

Really early that particular morning she was standing in the bathroom of their current motel room, getting changed since the clothes she had been wearing were now covered in grave dirt and they needed to go out again to make sure the spirit was really down and out. Entering the room without knocking as was his habit, Dean had seen her standing there, turning around in front of the mirror to check her torso for stray traces of grime to be wiped away. His eyes immediately focussed in on the scar and that familiar cold chill settled over him. She instantly caught his stare.

"Oh for goodness sake..." she muttered irritably, too tired for continued tolerance as she proceeded to shove past him back into the main room, apparently having no qualms about walking around in her bra in front of a perplexed Sam. Picking up a pen off the side she didn't something very unexpected.

She drew a smiley face.

Two large round eyes, wide grin and the scar as a long, straight nose.

"That any better for you?" she demanded of Dean, hands on hips, "Now you have a reason to look at it."

Silence.

It was Sam who surrendered first, his surprised face suddenly crumpling into laughter. Izzy looked at him for just a moment before her cross features softened and she laughed too. Dean didn't know if it was their reaction that did it, Sam and Izzy dissolving into pained hysterics as they spurred one another on, or if it was the ridiculousness of the situation. Either way it finally hit him too and almost against his will his face cracked and he found himself properly laughing for the first time since it happened. It really wasn't that funny, but in that moment and at time it wasn't about that. It was just about letting it all go.

He knew from then on in that he wouldn't be able to see that scar without thinking of that very moment, of the memory of them all standing together and laughing like a bunch of dumbasses over something that really wasn't that funny. She was a smart girl was his Izzy. She knew there were better ways of making him deal with something than trying to get him to talk it out.

"And you better pray to whoever you do believe in mister that this isn't a permanent marker," she warned when they'd all calmed a little, poking Dean in the chest as she re-entered the bathroom.

That was the night that Dean realised that you couldn't live for scars. They were reminders of the past and sure you could learn from them but they couldn't be everything. You had to live for what was to come. Fresh scars if you were unlucky, clean flesh if you were.

For him he was going to try to make damn sure that whatever came there were no more scars and no more long nights. And he knew he couldn't make any reassurances, knew he couldn't live in fear of them but that didn't matter. All he could do was try. It was what he had being doing all his life.


End file.
